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Glenn Beck drove sadly home, a great weight on his chest. This weight was a symptom not of Beck’s high cholesterol, but of the President’s refusal to appear on Beck’s radio show. No matter – by morning the weight would be gone, swallowed into his torso by the raging beast of righteousness that lurked therein. Beck changed into his nightwear – off came the jacket, the cufflinks, the shirt. Not for him Bill O’Reilly’s Kevlar jacket; instead, Mormon undergarments protected the beating heart of American values. Beck drifted off to sleep ...

Beck was at his desk. Obama had finally agreed to join him, and sat opposite, looking decidedly threatening. Beck surveyed him with a beady eye, and found Ann Coulter’s words rushing back into his head, followed closely by Ann Coulter’s legs. “Out, damned legs!” Beck cursed to himself, heatedly shuffling his papers. But Ann was right – Obama wasn’t very black after all; in fact, Republican blacks were almost certainly blacker. This must be what makes Obama angry all the time, Beck concluded: Ebony envy.

“Mr President,” Beck began politely, though he believed the title stolen, “thank you for joining me. You seem to have quelled the debate over your birthplace by releasing your birth certificate, though obviously it is worth pointing out that the certificate was released through your office and therefore is probably a forgery. Nonetheless, concerns remain about your religion. Can you prove that you’re not a Muslim?”

“No, I can’t,” said Obama, crestfallen. “You’ve got me there. Allahu Akbar.”

Pressing his advantage, Beck cried triumphantly: “Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party of the United States?”

“No,” Obama thundered, “they wouldn’t have me. I was ‘too progressive’!”

At this, Obama seemed to erupt and fill the studio, morphing into some hideous socialist bat-creature with fangs and taxes and gay marriage, breathing fire from every orifice. Beck picked up a leg from the newly-splintered desk. Wielding the hard wood with relish, he plunged it deep into the demon-President’s swarthy nether regions. Obama exploded into a burst of hellfire.

When the smoke cleared, Beck found his surroundings had changed. No more the slightly dingy radio studio; Beck was back at his show on Fox, the audience cheering madly as Obama’s discarded human skin slid down the inscrutable blackboard that Beck had missed so much. He was back, baby. He was back.

Beck awoke. As the fleeting scraps of his dream fled his mind’s tiny crevices, the memory of journalistic relevance faded slowly into emptiness.